


For That Night

by OrangeChickenPillow



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (mention) - Freeform, Animal Abuse, Anxiety Attacks, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Roach origin story, Romantic Fluff, Sleeping Together, Soulmates, could be read as romantic or platonic, i guess you could call it that lol, whatever you fancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:14:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28250727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrangeChickenPillow/pseuds/OrangeChickenPillow
Summary: Geralt of Rivia has not had the most pleasant life, and one night, the horrors of his past catch up with him, as they often do. The only difference this time is that Jaskier is by his side, and the bard is determined to help the Witcher in any way he can.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Kudos: 80





	For That Night

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning: Panic/anxiety attack and PTSD. Also mention of animal abuse and blood, though not too descriptive.
> 
> I wrote this one night while I myself was trying to calm down from an anxiety attack, and I wasn't sure that I was actually going to post it, but I figured why not. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

Suddenly it was all coming back to him. Every past horror, every monster, every battle and betrayal. The images flashed across his closed eyelids, lighting up his slumber like a terrible flame. Geralt felt his breathing pick up - he was gasping, but no air was reaching his lungs. His heartbeat, always so slow, began to drill into his ears like the banging of a steel hammer. 

Bang, bang, bang. 

Geralt sat up, the strain from his tensed muscles covering him in sweat. 

He panted, emitting soft growls with every breath. His quick eyes scanned every inch of the space around him. 

He knew where he was, he tried to convince himself. They’d made camp in the center of a vast field. The grass around them was a faded green, looking almost grey in the moonlight. Geralt hadn’t wanted to make their camp here, but Jaskier insisted; the bard had wanted to see the stars. 

Geralt had kept a cautious eye on their surroundings, his mind going over all the ways they were putting themselves in danger, while the younger man had gazed lovingly up at the sky, his eyes filled with wonder, a mirror for the twinkling lights. 

And there were a lot of lights. The night was clear, and the sky was void of clouds. The blanket of indigo above them was pricked with millions of little stars, spread across its vast fabric as if someone had scattered them around. 

Jaskier loved it. Sensing this, Geralt reluctantly decided that perhaps the risk had been worth it. 

The Witcher had drifted off to sleep while Jaskier was busy stargazing. 

But now, Geralt was awake, and something was wrong inside him. 

His whole body hurt, like someone had bundled up his insides and was squeezing them into a ball. He sat, looking like a cornered animal and trying to breathe. He really couldn’t breathe. 

He groaned, letting his head fall into his hands, grabbing fistfulls of hair and holding on tight. 

The air leaving his lungs came out raspy, and he began to realize that his muscles were cramping up from his coiled posture. 

Taking deep, deliberate breaths, he laid back down, closing his eyes. 

From next to him, Geralt heard a soft grunt, and the bard turned in his sleep. 

The Witcher’s eyes slowly opened as he lay there, thinking to himself. 

He was fine. Really. Or, he should be fine… 

But the heaviness pressing against his chest assured him that he wasn’t.

He let his eyelids fall closed, sighing softly. Then he mustered up all the courage he had. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt said softly. 

“Are you asleep?”

There was the soft fluttering of a blanket as Jaskier shifted. 

“Mmmm,” was the bard’s reply, then silence. 

Geralt exhaled slowly, painfully. It had been a stupid idea anyway. The bard needed his sleep, and how could Jaskier even help him? 

Trying to ignore a slew of intruding thoughts, Geralt attempted to calm himself down, or at least relieve himself of the pain inside him. 

Then he heard another shift as Jaskier propped himself up. 

“Geralt?”

The Witcher’s eyes slowly opened. The bard was lying on his side, abdomen curved as he propped his head on his hand. He was looking straight at him. 

Geralt closed his eyes again. 

“Um…” He heard Jaskier’s unsure voice. 

“You asked if I was awake. Well, I am now.” 

Geralt sighed again. 

“Are you alright?” Jaskier asked, shifting again, leaning a little closer.

The Witcher’s eyes opened, but failed to meet the bard’s sleepy gaze. 

“I shouldn't have woken you.”

Jaskier tilted his head, his soft hair, ruffled from sleep, falling over one eye. 

“That would be correct, if you don’t plan on telling me what the problem is.” The bard’s voice was playful, but soft all the same. 

Geralt sighed. 

“Gods, would you stop your sighing,” Jaskier teased. 

Geralt tensed as he tried to hold back another sighing breath. 

“I’m just -- trying to breathe,” he said, his voice coming out as strained as he felt. 

At that, Jaskier’s whole demeanor grew serious, caring. 

“Geralt? Talk to me.”

“I just,” the Witcher managed, squeezing his eyes shut again. 

“I don’t… feel good.”

The bard’s eyes widened. “What -- like you’re going to be sick? But I didn’t think Witcher’s got--”

“No,” Geralt interjected, sounding rougher than he meant to. “Not physically, but more…”

He trailed off, his brow knitting up. This was stuipid. 

Jaskier watched his friend closely. 

“Oh,” the bard said after a moment. 

“Oh,” he sat up. “Okay.” 

Then, “Geralt, can you look at me? Is that alright?”

Geralt scrunched his eyebrows together for a moment, but then opened his eyes to find the bard’s gaze, which was trained on him carefully. 

“Good. Great,” Jaskier said evenly. “Now what can I help you with?”

Geralt almost laughed. What could he help him with? Could Jaskier take away the heaviness that felt like it was crushing him? Could Jaskier help him breathe? Could he get rid of the memories - the experiences that followed him everywhere he went?

Jaskier must have seen the pained, lost expression in Geralt’s eyes, as his face screwed up with sadness and a longing to help. 

“I’m just,” Geralt started, speaking slowly. “My mind is… thinking things I don’t want it to. Remembering things I’d… rather forget. And,” the Witcher took a breath; he wasn’t used to sharing his feelings, and the concept was painfully new to him.

“It’s making me feel like there’s this…”

He made a gesture as if he was setting something onto his chest.

“Like there’s this weight.”

The Witcher fell silent, feeling drained from the act of opening up. 

But he also felt empty, like there was room for him to breathe again. 

Jaskier had not stopped looking at Geralt the whole time he spoke; though the Witcher’s gaze wandered uncomfortably, Jaskier’s piercing blue eyes stayed fixed on Geralt’s.

Jaskier took a deep breath. 

“I hate when that happens,” he said, trying to sound like his usual, upbeat self. But the Witcher could sense a new depth to his voice. 

“When it does happen though, I find that playing my lute helps. Either that or singing,” Jaskier raised an eyebrow at the Witcher, who was watching him now. 

“Is there anything that might help you, you think?”

Geralt thought about it. Was there anything that could help him?

“I… don’t know,” he said honestly. 

“Ok,” came Jaskier’s patient response. 

The bard laid back down, this time close enough to Geralt that their shoulders were touching. 

Surprisingly, this simple act seemed to help the Witcher.

Geralt could feel Jaskier’s familiar heartbeat, rather than only hearing it, and he could sense the man’s breathing next to him. It was slow and paced, and the Witcher aimed to match it. 

“What if you… tell me about how you got Roach?” Jaskier offered, sounding genuinely interested. 

Geralt gave a fond grunt, a smirk forming on his lips. 

Jaskier’s head shifted as the bard turned to look at the Witcher with a smile and a twinkle in his blue eyes. 

“Well?” Jaskier raised an eyebrow mischievously. 

Geralt sighed. 

“It was… fifteen or so years ago,” he started in his usual rough, hushed voice. 

“I was passing through a village in Ebbing, looking for work.” Jaskier had turned onto his side again, and was gazing intently at the Witcher while he spoke, listening closely.

“Well, I was passing by a stable, on my way to the inn, when I saw a man,” Geralt paused, his hand fidgeting slightly. “And this scrawny little filly the color of mud. She could’ve only been three years old. The bastard was whipping her -- she was already bleeding, but he wouldn’t let up. I don’t even know what he was trying to get her to do.”

Geralt’s voice remained even, but Jaskier’s brow had bunched up as if he was in pain. 

Geralt continued, “I kept on walking, rented a room, and then waited.” At this, Geralt’s voice grew fond, proud almost. 

“Once night fell, I went back to that stable. I turned all the horses loose and set the barn ablaze. Except,” he paused. “Except that scrawny little filly. I held onto her. She was terrified of me, at first. But eventually…” Geralt shrugged, looking over to where Roach was sleeping peacefully. 

Jaskier was silent for a while as he stared at nothing in particular. 

“Wow,” he said softly. “That… that is…” 

The bard shook his head. “Lucky Roach, I suppose.”

Geralt grunted, smiling.

“The only lucky one is that bastard, given that I didn’t slit his throat while he slept.”

Jaskier chuckled, positioning himself on his back, then turned to look at Geralt once more. 

“Any better?” he asked. 

The Witcher shot him a cunning look from the corner of his eye. 

“Yes, actually.”

“Hm,” Jaskier hummed softly, looking up at the sky, pleased. 

After several moments of contemplation, Geralt shifted awkwardly, causing Jaskier to look at him. 

“Oh I’m sorry, am I making you uncomfortable,” the bard joked, nudging the Witcher’s shoulder. 

“Not exactly,” Geralt smirked. “I was trying to decide if I should say thank you or not,” he added honestly. 

Jaskier gave him a dumbfounded look, then laughed airily. 

“By gods, Geralt, you really are the strangest man I’ve ever met -- and I’ve met some pretty strange men.”

Geralt shot him a look, which Jaskier ignored. 

“When someone does something nice for you, it is generally considered appropriate to show your appreciation.”

At this, Geralt looked pointedly at the bard. 

“I don’t know what you’re expecting, besides a thank you.”

“Some respect would be nice,” Jaskier muttered, causing the Witcher to gently kick his leg. 

“See what I mean -- not an ounce of respect,” the bard complained, but his face was lit up with laughter. 

Geralt smiled softly. 

They soon drifted off to sleep, both of them exhausted.

Jaskier hadn’t bothered to move back to his blanket, and Geralt hadn’t thought to ask him to. 

So they slept, shoulders touching so Geralt could hear the bard’s heartbeat, feel his breathing, and know he was there. 

And for that night, the horrors of his past left him alone.


End file.
